A Reflection on Romans 16:18

For they that are such serve not our Lord Jesus Christ, but their own belly; and by good words and fair speeches deceive the hearts of the simple. [KJV]

I don’t know if you ever listened to punk rock. I did, and do today as well. For over two decades I’ve been listening to the music and going—sometimes at ungodly hours and in some ungodly parts of town—to small old warehouses or old buildings (generally referred to as “clubs” or, more neutrally, “venues”) so I could have my eardrums pounded flat by yet another series of bands. On the whole I find it an enjoyable activity, and it keeps me in touch with my wilder, younger self now that I am a slower, older person. During this decade (and then some) I have observed some things that relate to the passage from Romans above.

In 1989 an Atlanta club like the Metroplex was not a smart place for a seventeen-year-old to be. Forget the fact that I’m larger than average. That didn’t matter. There was such a variety of unknowns—unknown people, unknown temperaments, unknown substances fueling unknown angers—that size, strength, or desire to get along peacefully with everyone else were not always relevant. I was, however, aware of the risk, and had identified some good places within the club to avoid.

Chief among these was “the pit”. A pit at a punk club is the area directly in front of the stage, where the volume is loudest and the density of people is usually the highest. You might have heard of “slam dancing” (also known as “moshing”)—the practice of people gyrating and careening into one another in response to the emotional tenor of the music and the moment. This would occur in the pit during the more frenzied portions of a show, along with an activity called stage diving.

The stage divers were a breed apart. Sometimes they were drunk or stoned out of their minds, or perhaps they just got caught up in the excitement of the moment. They would (somehow) manage to get up on stage with the performers, linger a moment there before the bouncers caught up with them, and then they would take a running leap off the stage into the empty space above the heart of the pit.

I stayed on the fringes of the clubs, more as observer than participant. This allowed me some opportunity to reflect on these strange goings-on. Of course, from the outside, the pit of a club appears the most lawless, violent, crazy place on earth. And there were occasions when the violence was there and genuine. But what I saw, for the most part, was a bizarre form of community.

Those in the pit sought catharsis, to be sure. They were pursuing a sort of Dionysian release that comes from risking life and limb. What was less apparent—but still very present—was camaraderie. Community.

When a punker dived off the stage, the pit would surge together, en masse, with arms raised and catch him (or her. Usually him). The diver would be held aloft, “surfing” the crowd until there was an opportunity to come down. Similarly, when a slam dancer fell in the midst of a mosh, arms would shoot down and set him upright again. There were bruises and scrapes, but not brawling and malice (for the most part). To an outsider, the pit seems like chaos, but it’s more like the ideal of anarchy: folks looking out for each other in a space beyond rules.

Now I’m older. The clubs are older, too. Punk has been absorbed into the mainstream, and the kids I see at shows now are several generations away from the scenes of ten years ago. They’re cleaner, hipper, and more sedate. Or maybe they’re just terminally bored.

The boredom shows. Not many pits in the clubs anymore. The shows these days are more like TV, with the audience passively consuming. Even at shows where the band is on fire and you can feel the energy in the air, the kids remain aloof. They’re too cool to bump into each other, maybe. Or maybe they’ve never learned how to yearn for catharsis.

At a show once back in 1999 I watched as a lone stage diver braved the bouncers, streaked across the stage, and leapt into what, twenty years ago, would have been the outstretched arms of the pit. Instead of surging forward, the crowd drew back, and he hit the concrete floor full-force.

Welcome to the America of the New Millenium. You jump and nobody catches you.

The point here is that civility and safety are not necessarily or ultimately one and the same. The pits of a decade ago evoked a weird community that looked out for its members. That concern is lacking in the “safer” shows of the late ‘90’s and early 'oughts. In the pits of the Reagan years arms flailed outstretched, and hence available to assist others who had fallen in the fray. Here in the new century, the crowd stands with arms folded, avoiding the possibility of touch as much as possible. A group of individuals but not the community I observed in years past.

Pits—and churches—can be risky places. They should be. A community that risks together can learn to care for itself in a way that a collection of individuals merely occupying the same space cannot.

Punk rock is not equivalent to the Gospel, of course. But I think the enemy of each was the same: a belly-ruled quietism that prizes comfort over risk, and safety of self over welfare of others. This is the very voice of the status-quo, of anesthesia, and it makes for lame churches and lame shows.

Categories: theology, musings